


The Invention and Implementation of Sin

by Ezzy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezzy/pseuds/Ezzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes humans, but he likes Aziraphale more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invention and Implementation of Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxymoronic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/gifts).



> Present for Oxymoronic for getting her application done and sending it off; were that we were all so organized...

It is often thought that demons invented sin. To be honest no one, including demons, is entirely certain, but since it's invention sin has rested solely in the domain of Hell. Demons encourage sin and are, in turn, tempted to sin. They are filled with sin, all sin. 

Crowley knows this, and can see every form sin may take inside himself, building up and burning out as he acts. Most of the time he doesn’t mind, for if he has already fallen why not enjoy what benefits it brings? He certainly has no problem with indulgence, most of the time. 

Angels are not allowed to sin. They are, by divine decree, supposed to be repulsed by it, and certainly never tempted by it. They are meant to repel sin, to scorn and scourge it.

Any of them can fall, the Morningstar proved that. 

Crowley knows this, and also knows that the Hosts of Heaven would weep and the Scrounge of Hell laugh at a demon that loves and an angel who lusts. Or was it the other way round?

It is this which makes him seek out those who can be tempted when he finds himself thinking about messy blond curls and skewed glasses that do not hide warm eyes and lovingly crafted cheekbones. 

He never stays till morning, even when staying would cause more angst or guilt than leaving silently will. He chooses to spend his afterglow in the presence of someone who has chosen to spend eternity pottering around old books and obsessing over tea. Occasionally he can even half delude himself they're sharing the afterglow together. 

These thoughts are quickly stamped out before they get too far. Crowley knows what it is to fall and he can silently exercise restraint when it comes to someone who, should they have been human, and therefore possessed such mundane emotions, Crowley may have been brought to say he loved. 

Sometimes Aziraphale will prattle on with an innocence that suggests he barely knows what Crowley had done before he came. Sometimes he will look reproachful and then Crowley will delude himself that it’s because Aziraphale wishes it was he who'd gone to bed with Crowley, rather than because he’s damned someone in one night. Sometimes he actually believes it is; when their faces come close and their breathing aligns as if they needed it to live. 

Silly angel, he thinks, it’s them or you, and I would rather damn a thousand mortals than let your wings be torn, your halo taken and your essence ripped apart and re-arranged. Mangled. 

He likes humans, but he likes Aziraphale more. 

It therefore comes as both a relief and a terrible, terrible blow when he sees the distant expression on his angel’s face at their next meeting, as if looking out onto a plane only the most favoured could see, rather than the ducks they were feeding. It speaks of beauty and awe and a cold, heavenly distance of rapture. 

“I’m not going to be around for a while, I’m afraid.”

He speaks calmly, evenly. 

“Oh.”

It’s all Crowley can say, standing at a distance he doesn’t want to break. He knows why when those suddenly mirror clear eyes turn on him.

“I’ve been recalled.”

He thinks at some point those eyes must have looked that cold before, but Earth seemed to have warmed that gaze and befuddled it. Crowley never knew he could miss befuddlement. 

“Would you mind sorting out the shop?”

A pause. Neither speak.

“I need to go now. You might not want to be around for this bit, dear boy.”

Crowley walks away and the heavenly light on his back burns like the heart he knows he doesn’t need to function. 

He doesn’t know if this is intended to punish him or save Aziraphale; he supposes they both deserve it, and either way it’s effective. 

Crowley doesn’t know when, or even if his angel will be back - time means little to heaven - so he doesn’t think about it. He just reminds himself that for some reason he didn’t want Aziraphale to fall, or even saunter in the vaguely downward direction he may have been taking for the past six thousand years. 

Demons do not love and angels do not sin and only humans may do both. But maybe, just maybe, after six thousand years it was alright to go just a little native.


End file.
